At the crossroads, I strain for a better view
on this cloudy hilltop, as if time
were linear and we could simply progress
toward some gourmand meal, the magical
result of every unknowing step revealed
— all the piecemeal duties of the sous chef
actually meaningful and necessary–ta-da!
in the big reveal. Under the guise
of wise grandmother, here I am
with all my fragmented parts and this
torturous winter still pulling me down
into wretched isolation and bone-deep
cold. Yesterday my friend, tired from a
trying week, sat down with me to ask
all the important questions true love
requires a heart to ponder.
Then through the terror and tears,
the neon-bright beckoning to denial,
the slow and painful
opening to a new perspective,
she simply held my hand.
My base shifted to include
more aspects of reality,
dropping the false narratives
that simply had no place
in this practical space she held.
And I wish for everyone such a
friend, unstinting generosity,
putting aside her own torments
to show me a brand new possibility
when I can step with love
through the false boundaries of time.
(A stream of consciousness Saturday post meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. Only “strain” is part of that prompt, the other words just jumped on the bandwagon!)